Separating Love and Sex (or not)

I’ve never been good at separating love and sex.

It’s possible that I’m just not great at handling my brain chemistry, so when I’m buried inside someone, looking into their eyes as we fuck, I believe all those hormones that are pumped into my head telling me it’s love. I had a belief as a teenager that sex would fundamentally change any relationship—acquired god knows where—and it stuck with me for a long time. Combined with my physiology, it meant that not only did I accept it, but I expected it as well.

After saying I love you at just the wrong moment, I’ve had a lot of awkward conversations that didn’t always go over as I would have like. You know, when I said I loved you back then it was just as a friend. Obviously. Or maybe it was her who brought it up, often as a rejection formed in a question. You don’t really love me, do you? Why would you say that?

And worst of all, at least most of the time, was I love you too. After that we would both lie there silently wondering if we could take it back, or if we needed to double down on it and see where we ended up. Maybe it was love and maybe it was true. And now where do we go?

This might explain why I mostly fuck my friends now. With someone I’ve known for even just a year, chances are high I’ve been saying I love you for a long time before we ever crawl into bed. When it’s been even longer, when we’ve put off sex for whatever reasons we can imagine, it’s a different story altogether.

“I love you,” I’ll moan as we writhe on the bed, in the bathroom stall, or on the couch at a party.

“Aww,” she’ll whisper back to me with easy sincerity. “I love you too.”



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This weekend Elsha La Rossa and I, along with our Salon Fantasia company, had an absolutely perfect evening sharing ideas and art with our friends. Here is a peek - photos by Walter Wlodarczyk.

This was a really beautiful and amazing evening. And the photos are lovely!

©2013 by The Dirty Gentleman (#750)
This weather makes me want to curl up and sleep until spring.

©2013 by The Dirty Gentleman (#750)

This weather makes me want to curl up and sleep until spring.

I’ll Always Be Here

She lay in bed when I walked in, the blankets around her waist and her hair a tangle on the pillow.

“I couldn’t sleep. I kept picturing you with her.”

“I’m home now,” I said, pulling off my tie and hanging my suit up in the closet. It was the most I could offer.

“I don’t like it. You shouldn’t leave me alone. Ever.”

“Should I just stay here in bed with you? For ever and ever?” I climbed naked beneath the covers and wrapped her in my arms. She backed up against me and clenched my fingers in her hand as she pulled me close.

“Yes. For ever and ever. Except when you go make coffee in the morning. Or order food. And maybe shower on occasion. No smelly boys allowed.”

“And what will you do with me all that time?” I asked, my body moving slowly against her. She reached one hand between us and took me firmly in hand, rubbing the head of my cock between her legs. I was barely hard, but she turned just enough to kiss me.

“I’ll make you fuck me. Just like this, with your arms around me as you promise to stay.”

And then I was inside her, and I would have promised anything. She sighed and pushed back against me as we moved slowly in the dark room. I kissed her neck and pulled on her hip bone, needing to be farther inside her than was ever possible.

“I promise,” I whispered, turning her head and kissing her lips once more. “We’ll never leave. We’ll never stop, and we’ll never get out of bed again.”

“And you have to make me come. A lot.”

My hand moved between her legs as she arched her back. Her thighs parted as my fingers found her, even as my other hand moved to her throat. I thrust faster and deeper, pulling her to me in so many ways. Her breath grew ragged and quick, and with each moan she moved closer and closer to the edge.

“When I get to five,” I whispered, letting go of her just long enough for her to catch her breath. “When I get to five you can come for me.”

She bit her lip and clenched around my hand and cock. I whispered the words in her ear, and by the time I reached three she was sobbing as her body shook and trembled. When I finally released her she screamed into the pillow; my privileged ears devoured every sound she made.

“I’ll always be here,” I whispered over and over again. “Always.”



Hold You, Kiss You, Taste You

I want to fuck you, love you, hold you, kiss you, taste you, and stare into your big blue eyes until I believe that maybe you love me too.

I want to undress you and kiss down the slope of your neck, stopping at your collarbone, your shoulder, and the space between your breasts. I want to feel you slide towards me, my knee parting your legs letting me feel just how warm you are. I want to kiss your stomach, laying you down, and looking up into those eyes wondering about everything. Those eyes that think too much and dream just the right amount, and those eyes that keep me from moving down just a few seconds longer.

And then I want to bite your thigh as I open your legs, my fingers grazing your lips before I open my mouth against you and taste your thoughts. I need to feel you arch your back and push up to me, wanting my tongue deeper, my lips softer, and my fingers cautious.

I can’t even write the words I want to hear you say, but they’ll come from your chest and your gut. They’ll come from your heart and your cunt, and by the time I’m kissing you I want all our options to vanish in a breath. I don’t need to watch or even open my eyes as I enter you because there is simply too much to take in without destroying the world. And as each second passes, our bodies slowly becoming closer until there is no farther to go, I’ll kiss your lips once more and listen to you moan out your want.

Simply put, I want to hear you, feel you, and taste you come. I want to see your body writhing, arching, aching, as I thrust within you, and I want to know the sounds you make when you can’t hold back any longer. I want to feel your teeth on my shoulder, your nails on my back, and your perfect body clenching around me as your scream my name over and over again until your voice is gone and there is nothing to do but open our eyes once more.

And as we lie there, my arms around you, our bodies slick with sweat, I want to once again stare into your big blue eyes and marvel that the entire universe can fit inside you.


(If you enjoy my writing and would like to support the blog, you can buy my novel or one of my dirty e-books on Amazon here.)

Do You Remember?

“Do you remember when you fingered me in church during the talky part?”

She was nestled between my legs with a blanket over her and a dress that was so short it was indecent. I wrapped my arms around her and kissed the back of her neck.

“Do you remember blowing me on the Megabus to Boston?”

She leaned back and grabbed my hand that was resting on her stomach. She slid it down her body, over her right thigh, and then finally between her legs to her very smooth and very bare pussy.

“That’s better,” she moaned as I brushed her gently with my fingertips. “Do you remember fucking on New Years while everyone else was sleeping around us? My brother was on the couch, but you slid inside me so slowly and quietly that no one woke up.”

She pushed back against me and I was hard against her ass in seconds. I pulled her to me and she a let out a gasp as I pushed two fingers deep inside her. She was soaking wet, and wiggling between my hand on one side and my cock on the other.

“I remember fucking your ass for the first time. You arched your back and bit your lip, and when I was all the way inside you told me never to stop. And then you fucked me back.”

She was moaning now and I moved between her clit and her pussy with quicker and harder attention. Her own hand joined mine, touching herself where she wanted it as I kissed her neck and mouth. My left hand was wrapped in her hair as she moaned between my legs and I could tell she was close.

“The first time you came inside me. And when you slapped my face in front of everyone, and the time you tied me to your bed and brought home a friend.” She was nearly panting.

“When you called your ex while I fucked you, or maybe the time you licked Steph’s clit while my cock was inside her. Or all the times you came around me, clenching and crying as we pretended it wasn’t going to ever happen again?”

Her body let go beneath my hand, and I pulled her back and kissed her mouth as she started to come. She arched up against my hand, her legs shaking and her muscles tight as she shook and screamed, my hand never once stopping. I pulled her hair harder and sucked her tongue into my mouth as she moaned, and her coming lasted for hours.

When she finally took my hand and brought it up to her chest it was all either of us could to do speak. I kissed her hair and she pressed my hand against her skin.

“Why did we break up, again?” she whispered.


(If you enjoy my writing and would like to support the blog, you can buy my novel or one of my dirty e-books on Amazon here.)

Less Cold and Wet

I always think that sex in the snow is going to be less cold and wet than it actually is.

The first time I fucked in a snowstorm I was sixteen and we were in the park all afternoon on a hill we were too old for but didn’t care. We teased each other until I actually got hard in the cold, and when I whispered that truth in her ear she pulled me into the woods with a wink. Let’s see if it lasts she said, pulling her thick pants down until just the glistening cheeks of her ass were visible, red from the cold and the pounding of the sled. We fucked for at least two minutes and I lost a glove. She tried to rub her clit with a mitten on and it was over before we started. Hot chocolate around the corner warmed us up but didn’t inspire more than kisses designed to warm our noses.

And then in college there was a hot tub outside and it was warmer at least. We fucked as the big wet flakes fell into our open mouths and eyes, and we laughed and laughed as we tried to find the best angle on the hard plastic seat. She actually came, much to both our surprise, and I kissed her ear and told her we were made for winter.

Years later I crawled into a tent buried halfway in a snow bank and it was too cold to take off anything. Even the fire not so far away didn’t offer much heat, and our attempts at love were padded with so many layers the best we could manage were kisses and words. When we finally did peal off our clothes, we climbed into one sleeping bag, naked for warmth. It was just barely big enough for one and we couldn’t so much as move let alone fuck. She told me she loved me for my body heat. I told her she was a fawn.

The other day we lay in bed looking at the tiny flakes as they felll from the sky and bemoaned the fact that we had to get up. The floor was cold and the wind crept through the cracks with icy fingers. We kissed for a moment, our hands sliding down to hips and thighs before the alarm went off once more.

“I like the snow,” I whispered.

She nodded but said, “sometimes I wish it was less cold and wet.”



Absorbing Me Slowly

She used to rub my come into her skin, claiming she was absorbing me slowly. She said that after a year of it we’d be able to communicate without using words at all, and we began to speak less and less. We drank coffee silently each morning, and our decisions were based on eyebrows and the touching of hands.

We fucked most every day, and she no longer had to ask me to pull out. In the moments after I finished she moved into an almost spiritual place with her eyes closed and her hands making circular motions across her chest and stomach. I’d watch her as I lay next to her in the dark, but it was hard to tell if it was working at all. Some nights after I came I felt even further away than ever before.

And then one Friday I realized we hadn’t spoken for an entire week. Seven days had gone by without us saying a thing. I pulled her to me and kissed her rather than getting dressed. She raised an eyebrow, but I dragged her back to bed and opened my mouth between her legs. I spent nearly an hour there, trying to think of the right words to use, but the longer I stayed the less I knew.

Finally she pulled me up and kissed my mouth as I slid inside her. I held her tightly, our bodies moving slowly but with great force. We gripped hands, strained muscles, and exerted every effort we had as we fucked, and when I came it was so deep within in her that for a moment we were one and the same.

She looked at me and smiled.

“I love you,” I said.

“I know,” came her reply.


©2013 by The Dirty Gentleman (#722)
Some of the best fucking is quiet and loud. It’s hard and soft next to easy and overwhelming. It’s sweat and tears and red skin that grows brighter with each touch. Comfort moves into fear-tinged excitement and desire turns to love in a heartbeat.
Some of the best sex encompasses everything.


©2013 by The Dirty Gentleman (#722)

Some of the best fucking is quiet and loud. It’s hard and soft next to easy and overwhelming. It’s sweat and tears and red skin that grows brighter with each touch. Comfort moves into fear-tinged excitement and desire turns to love in a heartbeat.

Some of the best sex encompasses everything.


Sense of Return

One of my favorite things to do with her collar was take it off.

I loved watching her eyes get big when I reached into my bag and she heard the sound of the chain, and I loved how still she sat when I wrapped it around her neck and fastened the buckle ever so gently. She transformed instantly, and I was right behind her. The second I stood back and looked at her—always naked and kneeling on the bed—I was someone else. I had full permission to do as I pleased, and the feeling was dizzying.

I loved how she moved with the slightest twitch of her leash, first this way and then that. Her face scrunched up into an expression of serious concentration, and even when I pulled her down and opened her mouth around my cock, I could feel the tension in her body. When I had her stand and place her hands on the wall, we required no other restraint than the end of the leash in her mouth. Even as I let the blows fall on her ass until her skin was crimson and her cunt dripping, she held still, only moaning through the soaked leather between her teeth.

I often fucked her on her back with the chain wrapped around one hand and the other in her hair. I loved looking into her eyes as she strained to answer each question, and she whimpered when I pulled my cock from her body in reprimand.

But after hours of sweating, hours of thrusting, slapping, biting, coming and crying, I needed something else. She rarely knew when I was done, but by the time she was back to kneeling again, it was clear. She trembled as I got closer, and when my fingers touched the clasp, I could feel her body begin to melt. I always made her close her eyes as I removed it, before carefully putting it back where it belonged.

And then my arms were around her, she was kissing my face, and it was better than seeing each other after months apart. We smiled and laughed, and I held her without regret.

Some days I only put it on so that hours later I might kiss her lips and feel that overwhelming sense of return.



(If you enjoy my writing and would like to support the blog, you can buy one of my dirty e-books on Amazon here.)

Worried About Love

I’ve been worried for a long time that if I fuck her I might fall in love.

There’s nothing wrong with being in love, especially if you don’t mind agony, pain, and torture (which most of us do). If I can take a good caning, I can surely handle some love, but it opens a different door.

Before it bursts out from behind the flood gate, I get to do a lot of pretending. I can think about her less than I might, and I can say things like “oh, I go back and forth.” I get to lie about my dreams both awake and asleep.

But why do I think that sliding my cock into her will change all that? What difference could it possibly make to my heart if she wraps her legs around me and stares into my eyes as I move inside her? If I make her come, why should I suddenly swell with indescribable affection?

I worry that when I fuck her, she will realize how long I have loved her.



©2013 by The Dirty Gentleman (#709)
Sometimes a simple touch is more needed than a complicated one. 

©2013 by The Dirty Gentleman (#709)

Sometimes a simple touch is more needed than a complicated one. 

Natural Pain Killer

“When William Burroughs was dying his last words were about love.”

“Since when are you a fan of Burroughs?” She was looking at me over her coffee cup with a raised eyebrow. I thought quickly.

“He called it the most natural pain killer,” I told her.

“He must have been high. When was the last time love made anything easier?”

It was my turn to stare at her, because after three years I wasn’t sure I could argue. Love had been difficult, overwhelming, frustrating, and painful. Love was crying and struggling, and it was saying we’re sorry over and over again until the words rang mostly hollow. Love, for us, was living next to each other and getting caught in each other’s wakes.

I shook my head, but words didn’t come. She went back to her magazine and I drank my coffee, neither of us giving in. As I stared at the steam rising from my mug the sun snuck around the building, through the window, and perched in her auburn hair. For a moment the color was brilliant and I stared at her with my eyes open. The freckles on her cheeks and the darkness of her eyes held me steady; when she looked up I was smiling.

“What?” she asked, shielding her face from the sun.

“It’s what there is,” I said. “Love.”


Guy New York

(If you enjoy my writing and would like to support the blog, you can buy my novel, or one of my dirty e-books on Amazon here.)

Rainy Day Love Letter

Dear You,

I was going to write you a love letter, but I got caught up worrying about what to say.

It’s raining today which may have something to do with my mood. Rain always makes me warm and comfortable and completely risk averse. I want to snuggle and drink hot things. I want to write and watch movies that don’t ask too much of me. But it doesn’t inspire me to dig deep and say things that are difficult. The rain asks me to put all difficult things aside and wait until the sun returns.

But I do love you, that’s not hard to say. And wanting comes easy on a rainy day as well. I can imagine you here in my bed, the blankets pulled up around us as we listen to wind and water outside the window. And if I can imagine you here next to me then I can imagine our bodies naked and soft, our legs brushing against one another and our hands softly exploring. It’s not a day for passionate kisses and wild smashing of body parts together, but maybe that’s better for us. Maybe you and I were meant for slow love that lasts simply because it is slow. Maybe we can kiss like we have all the time in the world, and if I finally slide inside you we can hold our breath before breaking out in laughter.

I can also tell you that I’ve been feeling lonely. What’s worse it that I don’t feel entitled to it. I have so many wonderful people in my life that it’s absurd to say. And yet, there it is, swelling up within me until sometimes I burst into tears. I suppose we’re all entitled to feel what we do, but knowing that doesn’t make it any easier. Loneliness often comes when my life is full and friends are around. I suspect it’s because it’s not the same as being alone. I’m rarely lonely when I’m alone. Is that strange? It takes a crowded room to make me feel lonely.

But writing help. Thinking of you helps. Day dreaming of you in my bed on a raining morning with nothing to do but drink coffee and fuck so slowly it hurts, helps. So thank you for that. And thank you for your words and your love and your gentle affection that demands nothing. On days like this it’s what I need most.

So, if it’s raining when you are then know that I’m thinking of you. Know that I miss you and love you, and with any luck we’ll soon pull a blanket up over our naked bodies and hide until the sun comes back.

With much love,


What Love Means

Sometimes when I tell you I loved her, what I really mean is I wanted to fuck her so badly it entered my heart.

The two are easily confused, especially when I can hardly tell the difference between the thing beating in my chest and the thing pulsing between my legs, except to know that neither of them have anything at all to do with the grey matter inside my head. So when I want her the most, when I can no longer think and my body takes over, it’s often hard to distinguish between them. One pumps blood to the other, but both swell just the same.

There are a million ways to tear love and lust from the grasp of each other’s embrace, and each one sits on a higher horse than the last. But when I am between her legs, and both our hearts are beating and swelling as they pump blood to where they know it belongs, there is no separation.

When we come there is no one to ask what love means.